


Bitten (Mitchell One-Shot)

by Hornballfics



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Smut, aidan turner - Freeform, dark!Mitchell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:45:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornballfics/pseuds/Hornballfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writer: TJ<br/>{Warnings - smut, blood, dark!Mitchell}</p>
<p>**Dedicated to my most wonderful princess. She is my inspiration and I have found my voice again because of her. Thank you, my Love Light**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitten (Mitchell One-Shot)

**Author's Note:**

> [Word Count: 1505]

You run your tongue along the knot of veins bulging in Mitchell's muscular neck and taste his sweat. He is growling low in his throat a warning for you to back off, his senses tripping over each other and pushing him from one extreme to another: rage, lust, hunger, back to rage and lust again. He is in every way a predator right now, and the only thing keeping you safe from his glinting jaws is just a length of rope, no thicker than a belt buckle. You swallow, can hear your heart thundering in your ears. Where is your self-preservation? Why aren't you in the nearest corner, curled into a ball in terror? Or even anywhere else on earth, far from this nightmare.

You will not move, though. Your eyes are compelled to look upon him; every fiber of your being is trapped by his side, at his legs, as if in worship. You incline your head and just stare, it is all you are in control of. Not your own body as you breathe him in heavily, delighting in the way his scent bites at your nostrils and down your throat. Not your mind which is dangerously fighting to understand him, to get to know him better, all of him. Not your soul which is almost crying out to rip away from you and encircle his. Or what is left of his. Your skin freezes as his eyes meet yours. They are black. Blacker than night. His smile is disarming in its mesh of terror and charm. You swallow hard again and unconsciously move even closer. The game you are playing is with Death himself, and he is holding all the cards. 

"Here, darlin'. Come here," a lilting Irish accent beckons you more enticingly than any pied piper, and he's infinitely far worse.

You are becoming bound to him in ways you cannot fathom or disentangle yourself from. All you can do is obey him, so you do. You move closer, and suddenly it is like a surge of electricity blows every light in your head and you are plunged into darkness, but still wide awake to see the destruction before you.

He smiles again, that same charming, terrible smile. His shining white teeth pull you in just like the dimples by those lips you have been fixing to kiss, lick, and suck on for so long.

You should be calling out for Carl, you should be SCREAMING for him to come back, because even though he and Mitchell are the same, Carl you know you can stake your own life on and survive.

Mitchell is a dream and a night terror entwined together in an erotic puzzle of desire, forbidden lust and freedom from societal trappings. He is dark chocolate and whiskey, and he is crooning in your boiling blood.

You try to catch your breath but you cannot; you try to move a little further back but your body is no longer your own to command. Your eyes are locked on to his; unending depths of a tunnel so deep they are sucking you in.

"M-Mitchell", you try to stammer, but your voice is lost somewhere in the room, falling to the floor like a broken feather.

"[Y/N]", he replies, lengthening your name dangerously seductively, his whisper stronger than yours; a cobra's hiss dancing around your shivering body.

A single tear falls down your cheek of fear and acceptance. You are in the middle of a jungle without a light and there's no way back. You move even closer.

"That's it, baby", he almost sing-songs from his bindings in the chair. "That's it, princess."

As if on autopilot you sit up on your hunches and extend your arms, reaching towards the rope coiled around his beautiful hard stomach, coated in sweat, tormenting you low in your belly, pooling warmth between your legs. Your brain, the part that is fighting for your survival, is screaming at you to stop, to get away as fast as you can, but your body is betraying your mind and your soul is practically rejoicing.

Finally, as if a lifetime has passed, your hands are on the knot at the back of the chair securing Mitchell. His breaths are now pants next to your ear, his sweat soaked hair is clinging to your curls and your cheek. His scent somehow even stronger, making your mouth water. You notice your own breathing is now mirroring his, and it is all you can do to focus on freeing him from the twisted rope. Finally you succeed. The ends slip away from each other and the rope slaps to the floor.

All is still. All is quiet. Apart from your conjoined breathing. Suddenly there is no fear, no wrong or right. No more light or day. There is just this moment.

And then you are out of time.

He does not tell you to run. You do not feel panic; your heart does not even jolt in fight or flight when you slowly move your head the same time he moves his. It is almost a dance, a ballet; Carl could even be sitting at the piano in the corner filling the room with the shivering strains of Swan Lake. But there is no Carl. No music. You slowly turn your head. Mitchell slowly turns his own …

Your gaze lock on to each other for just a second, but it could also have been for a century, because there is still so much quiet, so much stillness even now, in the midst of horror. Your heads turn. Your gaze locks. And the second is up.

Teeth slice through your throat, the accompanying snarl of triumph amplifying in your ears, drowned out now by your escaping blood thundering out of your prone body. Hands and strong, tanned and sweat covered arms cage you, imprison you. They fasten you close to his naked flesh, neither protecting nor violating.

His mouth is locked on to your exposed throat, his fangs deep inside your flesh. You can feel your life force sliding down your skin, and over your breasts, you can feel your veins buckle under his assault, can hear his satisfying gluttony as he laps up and drinks from you. You even hear him moan. His grip is a vice. You cannot move if you wanted to, and the moment is too far gone for any tardy urges of escape. He drinks harder from you, his hands harsher as they cradle your head and press into your back. Your hair is falling over your shoulders, the ends folding into his lap. He shifts his position and your body is lurched to the side. Somewhere far away you can feel yourself being lowered to the floor. A shadow looms over you, a coldness takes possession, and you feel its weight as it lies on top of you, drinking drinking drinking …

"Mitchell!! Stop! NO!!'

Somewhere a deep male voice admonishes. You hear more snarling. And then the weight is gone from you - you are vaguely aware of disappointment. You found the dark burden oddly comforting, almost as if it belongs there.

"Miiiiitchellll", you try to say.

The quiet returns, snapping back into the room without notice, interrupting the chaos. You cannot move, can only listen. Black boots make their way into your line of vision, then denim clad knees, the wet hardness of a man's stomach, the blood and sweat soaked hair glistening on his built chest, his nipples dark cherry and peaked … Your breathing becomes erratic again, and maybe it is the blood loss or finally the slow building fear, or maybe it's something else …

"Mitchell", you manage to say his name this time, a little brokenly. Your hand spasms against the hard wood. You try to swallow but your neck is aching.

"Ssssssh sweet baby", he responds, a pacifying hand brushing back your hair.

He leans over you, your blood decorating his lips. Those lips. He speaks so softly you strain to hear. What he says makes your hand twitch again and your stomach flip pleasantly.

"You're mine, now."

He reverently licks a path through your blood up your throat and sighs, his stomach clenching visibly. When he leans back you see his eyes again, but this time you notice their beauty. Blacker than night they may be, blacker than a shark's, but they glisten under the light from the chandeliers, and they dance for you.

Your body suddenly shakes violently and you think you are succumbing to shock. Your spine curves, you writhe on the floor, gasping, trying hard to catch air into your lungs. You want to ask what is happening, you want to scream at them to help you, but again you feel cool fingers in your hair and those tempting lips at your ear.

"That's it baby. You're mine now."

Your scream could shake the room, and when you open your eyes they glisten and dance like his.

And they are blacker than night.

**Author's Note:**

> Let us know what you thought ( ¬‿¬) and please like this post if you enjoyed!
> 
> Tumblr fic account - @HornBallFics


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